


Forget Your Perfect Offering

by yumi_michiyo



Category: Glee
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 20:04:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11169099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumi_michiyo/pseuds/yumi_michiyo
Summary: There was probably a better reason for doing it, but Quinn couldn't think of one; and anyway, it hardly mattered in the face of Rachel's unconditional acceptance of everything Quinn Fabray. Oneshot, established Faberry.





	Forget Your Perfect Offering

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a drabble-length dialogue exercise, oh my god. Set in an AU fairly removed from canon; think post-season 3 and you should be good.

"Sometimes, I don't know why you bother," murmurs Rachel, almost to herself. She leans in the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, eyes traveling from Quinn – seated comfortably on the closed toilet seat – to the bottle of bleach on the countertop.

Quinn can't respond. The more she thinks about it, the less sense it makes. Eventually, she shrugs, careful not to shift the towel wrapped around her neck. "Habit, I guess."

"Mmm." Rachel doesn't enter the bathroom. "I'm going to get dinner started, okay?"

Quinn stares at her, a hint of a smile on her face; rolling her eyes, Rachel amends it to: "I mean, I'll get dinner heated up."

"Sounds great," says Quinn, very placidly. "Don't rush, I have another half-hour left before I have to rinse it out."

Rachel leaves an grouchy acknowledgement behind her as she pads to the kitchen.

* * *

It takes her sixty-seven minutes to rinse all the bleach out, and to wash and condition her hair thoroughly; so Rachel is already seated at the table when Quinn appears. She pours a ladle of sauce on Quinn's pasta once Quinn sits down.

"I gave you extra noodles," she says, handing the plate to Quinn, "you always complain of being extra hungry after."

"Mmm, thanks. It looks good."

They eat in silence. Quinn's mind is elsewhere, worrying about work ( _did I include all the policy discussion points Michael wanted?_ ), the household ( _shit, we're almost out of kitchen roll and I forgot to ask Rachel to buy more_ ), and miscellany ( _I think the sauce would taste great with grilled chicken breast_ ). When they're done and Quinn is stacking the dirty dishes in the sink, Rachel lays a hand on Quinn's. "I'll do it," she offers.

Quinn shakes her head. "You reheat, I clean. That was the deal."

Rachel treats her to an exaggerated eyeroll ("One day, your eyes will pop out of their sockets"). "It's fine. Extra drudge work won't kill me," she insists. Quinn smiles, remembering the time Rachel was cast as Cinderella in _Into the Woods_ and they joked that she should do all the household chores to properly get into character.

Quinn's smile falters when she notices Rachel's wide and tenuous smile, and the fluttering of her fingers on the kitchen counter. Rachel's _nervous_ ; and it's not like her girlfriend to be nervous around her, not since their high school days. "What's wrong, Rachel?"

Rachel's smile slips. "Nothing. Why?"

"Something's bothering you. What?"

Rachel sighs. "I… you'll laugh at me."

"I'll try not to," promises Quinn earnestly; Rachel sighs, clearly knowing from experience that's the best response she'll get from her.

She takes a moment to chew on her lower lip; just when Quinn thinks she's lost her nerve, Rachel reaches for Quinn's fringe. Her fingers toy with the still-damp strands. "You know that no one cares you're not a natural blonde, right?"

She frowns. Rachel means well, of course, but the words hit a little too close for comfort."Yeah?"

"... I'm sorry. That came out a little wrong." Rachel's mouth twists, and then she says: "You don't need to prove anything to anyone. You can just be yourself."

Quinn stills.

"... Baby?"

"Sorry. Just… No one's ever said that to me," says Quinn, and clarifies, "apart from you, of course."

Rachel scoffs. "Yeah, well… my thoughts on your family and upbringing are well-known."

"Duly noted."

Rachel looks straight at her, with that intense manner she has, and says: "I love you." Quinn's heart flutters; it's been four years of Rachel, but Quinn can't get used to how she always sounds so ridiculously _sincere._

She finds Rachel's hand and squeezes it. "I love you too. Where did that come from?"

Rachel just laughs and says, "In case you forgot."

"Yeah, okay, you dork."

She's gone from toying with Quinn's hair, to stroking it like she's a show pony. Quinn makes a contented sound and leans into her touch. "I worry what all that product does to your scalp. I had this nightmare last week that you went _bald_ because of the bleach. Quinn, it's not _funny_ ," Rachel hisses when her girlfriend starts to laugh, "it's a legitimate condition, and there are plenty of medically documented cases…"

"I know," interrupts Quinn. Belatedly, she notices Rachel is too far away; she puts a hand on Rachel's hip to pull her closer. "Sorry. It's not funny," she repeats dutifully, and Rachel swats at her arm.

"It's really not." Rachel's fingers trail to the ends of Quinn's hair, almost down to her collarbone. "You need a haircut."

Quinn makes a noncommittal sound. "I was thinking of growing it out, actually."

"That doesn't mean you can't get it trimmed." Rachel winds a lock of blonde hair around her fingers and gives it a playful tug; Quinn pretends to bite her, laughing at the outraged expression on Rachel's face. "It's so… yellow."

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "You're getting blind in your old age. It's _honey_ - _blonde_."

"That is not what I meant and you know it, Quinn Fabray." Rachel continues to wind hair around her fingers, expression going contemplative. "You've been bleaching it white-blonde for the past few years."

"You noticed?" asks Quinn, amused.

"I notice everything about you," she murmurs, and they're back to their college years; all shy longing and misdirected interest.

Quinn remembers watching Rachel from across the choir room, and smiles at the memory. "I must really love you, because I find that endearing rather than creepy."

Rachel beams at her, and Quinn guesses it's because she managed to express her affections so casually rather than the compliment – but knowing Rachel, it's more likely to be a combination of both.

"Anyway," continues Quinn (because _somebody_ has to get back to the point if they want to finish this conversation sometime tonight and it's not going to be Rachel), "I'm not bleaching my hair to live up to someone's standards, or to uphold an image. I'm – it's something that makes me feel like _me._ If that makes sense."

"It makes perfect sense." Rachel darts up to kiss the end of Quinn's nose. "I was – I wanted to make sure that it's something you do for yourself, rather than – you know."

"I know," says Quinn, smiling widely. "I am." She turns away to start on the dishes.

"I'm glad." Rachel kisses her cheek, and grabs a dishtowel to start drying. "Also… I confess myself rather curious to see what you'd look like as a brunette."

"Oh my god, Rachel."


End file.
